birds of a feather
I used to live in Gastown. My apartment was on the fourth floor. Outside my window, in a magnificent tree, a crow sat in her nest high above. There she stayed for weeks. Day and night, rain and shine; waiting for her chicks to hatch.
Every day the male, perched in the tree across the street, stood guard. Her protector. Far enough away to give her the freedom to nurture on her own, but always at the ready to save from harm. Every so often, he flew over to check on her and feed her. It was beautiful and touching, natural and instinctive.
That's how it should be between a man and a woman too, but... you know... without the worms and all the gross regurgitating.